He didn’t even bother to go stealthily, just strode down the back stairs and across the commons, only dimly aware of the normal traffic there. Several sheep and goats were grazing beneath the watchful eye of a shepherd lass; he didn’t hear her greet him, didn’t hear several others who raised their voices curiously at the sight of him. And he was an odd sight indeed had he realized it: hair and clothing wildly askew, white, set face, half-shuttered, blazing eyes. He kenned none of it, his steps gaining momentum faultlessly, body taking over where mind was failing, and by the time he’d shoved through the south gate, climbed the steps out of the courtyard and gained the top of Buck Hill, he was staggering, then running.

Running. Through the top vineyards and past workers who twisted curiously at his passing, over the stone periphery wall, through a field of barley that slapped wetly against his arms and chest and nearly felled him more than once. Through corn that towered over his head, heavy and green and wet, nearly losing him, through mercifully-open fields of grass and one wide, fallow field that slowed him down with slick, sticky mud. A hump at the end of the field announced a small road, which reached up to greet him, turned him, took him along a narrow easterly ribbon stretching as far as he could see had he been looking beyond the length of his shadow. His strides lengthened. Slowly he became aware of the wind whistling past his ears, how it picked up and pulled the moisture from his damp clothing, the feel of it burning his chest as he sucked in great gasping breaths. His shadow flitted beside him in an unending, losing race, then suddenly flickered and disappeared and the wind turned cool and the brightness before him turned to grey stillness.

It halted him, made him look past the meter of awareness he’d cast himself into. The wind had died, almost too still to even breathe. His chest lifted and fell raggedly in the sudden cool sparseness of air as he panted, his side suddenly grabbing fiercely. He took another wobbly step. The dirt pathway beneath his feet had dwindled thinly into disuse, sprouted midsection with weeds and grass shoots; trees were all about him, blocking the afternoon sun, and not several hundred feet from him the road dipped downward into a deep culvert of stone and earth. The culvert was bordered by a battered and ancient wall of stone that stretched to either side of him as far as his eyes could see.

And behind the wall...

It was vast, dark and deep, shades reaching out beyond their boundaries. Cool and green and forbiddingly inviting, the forest arched up above him, toward him and to each side of him, a wildish, ragged line only negligibly and rebelliously held back by the weathered stone. It made his refuge of copse and thicket and cave along the river bottom, thought wild and unspoiled, look a gardener’s plot, tame and tendered and demure.

Swallowing hard, still gasping for breath, his legs shakily protesting the vehemence of his flight from the Hall, Frodo stepped forward. He’d run a long distance—had to have, for he recognized where he was. He’d seen drawings in the book his aunt had been so anxious to hold from him, recognized the tunnel culvert, the tree-tangled walls, and an undeniable thrill took him.

The Old Forest. The beginning of the Wild.

He moved forward. His knees were a bit wobbly, but he forced them straight, ducked into the tunnel. It smelled strongly of earth and lichen; roots poked through the roof and moss hung to it grimly. His lungs heaved echoes into the stillness, surrounding him with his own gasping need for air. The gate—as ancient and tattered as the wall, with thick iron bands holding wood into a barrier—was locked. It spanned upwards, about six hands higher than the top of his head, with a small gap at its top that would not admit even his slender frame. He tested the lock, which was nearly as old as the gate but well-oiled and cleaned and not likely to give him admittance.

He’d have to find another way in.

Frodo exited the culvert, not exactly sure of why it had become so important for him to gain entrance, only that somehow it was. The wall offered more possibilities for access; it was very tall, but plenty of finger- and toeholds in those old stones. The forest loomed over him and for seconds his breath caught painfully in his belly; a cell-deep, instinctual fear possessed him, made him shiver despite sweat and three layers of clothing, however damp.

Instead he gritted his teeth and extended his hands, putting them to the wall. He pulled himself partway up with a grunt, set his toes to it and wriggled and pushed and angled until he found adequate purchase. With no little effort he clambered up the old barrier; by the time he reached the top of the two-meter-high stone wall he was panting again, bearing a scraped knuckle, a bruised shin, and seated with one leg crossed over the other, pulling out an inch-long grey thorn that had lodged in the ball of one horny foot.

The breeze was stronger up above the ground; yanking the thorn out with a grimace and ascertaining that it was indeed only a mere inconvenience, Frodo angled his head back into the wind, letting the tiny breath of air cool the sweat from his face. A gnarled, ancient rowan fluttered next to him, one limb picking itself up in a sudden shift of wind and its leaves caressing the back of his neck. It made him shiver in pure reflex—he was no longer cold, but pleasantly warmed from his exertions—for moments it had felt like tiny fingers upon his nape. Frodo stared into the darkness of the deep thicket beyond the wall; it was so close, so tangled. But below him the forest floor was clear, and he could see what looked like a path leading from that leaf-littered space.  He peered down, chewing contemplatively at a fingernail and trying to decide whether to clamber down or just make the jump.

The rowan touched his neck again; he nudged it away then, with one slight push, arced off into the air. The forest bottom, covered with untold ages of bracken and mold and detritus, made an almost pillow-soft landing; Frodo rolled as he hit and came to his feet feeling as if he’d jumped a mere one foot instead of nearly ten.

Curiosity and wonder had dampened misery where his book—still in his pocket, he checked with a small bit of panic—had failed to take him astray from burgeoning thoughts. Curiosity, wonder; those two mannerisms that so discomfited so many hobbits nevertheless in Frodo easily entwined and companioned with the moment-by-moment ability that was equally part youth, part undeniable hobbit heritage, and partly his own peculiar brand of survival instinct that allowed him to easily shut away what he just didn’t want to acknowledge. The forest pressed down on him; it was not friendly, but oddly enough neither was it totally alien. The tiny thread of fear that had previously given him pause once again blossomed at the base of his spine, intuitive and seeking outlet. For moments he had the urge to crouch like a hare beneath the hawk, to run for cover; clenching his fists he vented the sensations in a more positive fashion.

He walked into the wood.

It was eerie, yes. But it was also fascinating. And anyway, he wasn’t going to be like those at the Hall, scared of their own shadows. What was there to be frightened of here? It was just a big—very big, he amended, looking about with wide eyes—thicket of trees. All those stories of ghosts and wraiths and visions were just that: stories. Everyone seemed to so enjoy telling him that he was odd—well, it was about time that that worked for instead of against him!

His mother hadn’t been afraid of the forest. Old Uncle Rory had said so.

The knowledge took his brave front and gave it a bit of substance. His steps grew a bit less hesitant, his chin lifted, his fists unclenched and he walked through the gloom with more surety.

It was beautiful, in a terrific, wicked sort of way. The darkness enclosed, lulled the senses. It was all muted shades of green and black and grey, the trees towering over him, a canopy so far over his head that it didn’t even feel as if there was a ceiling, only darkness rising above and going on forever, up into the sky. Old logs lay rotting on the ground, fecund and moist nurseries for little green shoots and larger plants. He went over to one, pulled at the bark and it came away easily, crumbling in his fingers. Pale grubs wriggled away from the dim exposure and bugs of all description, shape and size went scattering.

Something huge soared past his ear and he ducked, flattening against the soil with arms going instinctively to cover his head. A sharp creak, almost as if something was on hinges, assaulted the quiet and he rolled his face from the dirt to look upward. The most enormous raven he’d ever seen was digging busily into the log he’d just pulled the bark from, making quick opportunity of the providential feast of exposed bugs. It peered at him, cocking its head almost as if in thanks, then continued pecking. Several others swooped down, barking--they were all easily the size of his torso so Frodo quickly crawled away on hands and knees before they decided he was just another, if somewhat larger, grub.

Once well away from the log he got to his feet. Humus clung to his mouth, tasting of wood-rot and tannin; it was not a totally unpleasant thing but it dried his tongue fiercely and as Frodo spat it out and rubbed his mouth he realized that he had come away without something quite necessary if he was to stay here for any length of time: water.

To stay here?

The thought suddenly appealed. No curfews. No restrictions that he could never seem to leave unbroken. No snide whispers, no bullying relatives, no constant wonder if he was in the right place or was anywhere near where he belonged...

Ah, but on the other side of the mark, no steady meals. No comfy bed. No Merry to run with. No little Pippin to ride herd over. No books.

And no water. He was getting pretty thirsty. His run had taken a lot of moisture from him. Perhaps he could find a pool, or better yet, a stream that would not run the risk of being sour from sitting too long in its own rot.

Of course, all of it might be a moot point—particularly the soft bed and the regular meals—because by the time he returned he would no doubt be in so much trouble that he’d be lucky to stay in the barn with the livestock and get bread and water for supper.

He kept walking, ears pitched to the slightest sounds. Wood creaked as the wind took the uppermost branches, but the Forest was silent, waiting. Watching. He could feel it, like a hand tickling his back, and he shuddered away as it urged him to panic. To run.

It seemed lately that running was all he wanted to do. It was the best option at times, yet now he felt that it was not. That to run, now and here, would be a mistake. Like when Esme had been so angry at him. Neither then had he wanted to run. No, he had set his back to some imaginary wall, had felt some furious defiance rear its head within him, had felt solid and strong and unshakable...

And scared.

A chuckling, rippling noise teased his right ear; Frodo turned swiftly, frowning in concentration. Where was it? Where…? There. Ears nearly twitching in awareness, he moved forward on silent feet, was rewarded by the sound growing before him, slow and sweet. A small path rose to meet his toes, narrow and beaten bare by paws and hooves, not feet. The vegetation closed just above his head, telling him that the Forest denizens were large. The animal trail took him unerringly to the stream.

The little waterway spoke to him entreatingly, glinting in the dim light over rocks that were not grey, but tan and brilliant white and pearl. He squinted against the reflection of it. There were many marks here—animal spoor—as he knelt at the bank and extended shaking fingertips to the crystal surface, so very little doubt that this was an unfouled stream.

He cupped his hands and drank; it was sweet, and so cold it burned upward behind his cheekbones and down into his gullet. Splashing his face and neck, he hesitated as the droplets runneled down his cheeks, throat and breast, and suddenly the too-worked-up senses that had muted beneath the run and the wandering came back with purposeful, inarguable intent.

Wiping angrily at his chest, shirt soaking up the damp and erasing the water’s touch, he lowered himself to sit beside the stream, shifting himself back against another log, wrapping his arms about his knees. He leaned back against the log, careful not to disturb the bark or risk attracting more very hungry and very large birds, and dangled his muddy feet in the chill water. The stream lifted a grey cloud of dirt about his ankles, swirling it away. It danced over the rocks, tickled his toes and laughed at him, told him quite plainly what a fool he was being: did the ponies hang their heads in the spring and refuse to come out of their stalls? Did the deer protest when the rut came upon them? Did the birds doubt their love-calls in season? This was normal, expected…

Shattering.

"Stop it," he whispered to himself. "Please."

It was as if part of himself had been asleep, and had now come dismayingly awake, hungry as a hobbitbairn put to bed without supper. That was not the disturbing part, however. What was disturbing was how it had awoken…

Yet it wasn’t just Lotho, with his humiliating and unwanted attentions. It was also Merry, with his innocent concern and his fervent wish to not be left behind. It was Esme, with her constant disappointment and incomprehensible antagonism. And last, the most dismaying of all, Pippin with his precocious, undeniable receptiveness. It was everything and everyone, chipping away at what precious self-hood he possessed.

He scrubbed his hands over his face and flung his arms upward, arching back over the log, stomach muscles pulling in mild protest. He stretched fiercely, felt sinews twinge and his vision blur, then relaxed and lay there, eyes seeking upward, reflecting the overhead canopy of green and gold and the slight glimmers of cerulean that penetrated the dim forest in sparse relief.

Relief. The only relief he had felt today was when his aunt had struck him. What had welled up in him before that moment had been frankly terrifying, moreso than what Lotho had dredged up from him, more than what Merry had faced him with by walking in on him. Those were at least recognizable in some form, however unsettling. But what Esme had forced out of him had been simply unfathomable. Frodo was all but unable to acknowledge the latter as something belonging to him: it was too big, too immovable, too righteous. And that in itself had seemed to open another gateway to an entire, socked-away vat of emotions, bubbling and fermenting and threatening to overwhelm him. It had driven the entire day to rise within him and snarl defiance.

When Esmeralda had finally slapped him, it had reduced him once again to merely a scared boy, merely the orphan, merely himself. And he’d been glad...

Then, Pippin. That had been the worst. Somehow, beneath unwavering defense and demanding affection, Pippin had opened the bottomless portal of confusion that Esme with her slap and Frodo with his own desperation had barely heaved shut and backed against, panting and wild-eyed. It was as if an abrupt and incredible sense of rightness and belonging had imparted itself to him, in conduit from a child, and nearly choked him for some inexplicable reason…

Frodo lowered his forehead to fisted hands. Belonging. That was a laugh. He didn’t belong at the Hall. He didn’t belong to his old home, not anymore. For some reason he couldn’t even remember much about his old life—just strange clouded shapes and whispers—but he could still recall the first time he’d run away from the Hall, wanting to go back home...

Only the little house had been empty, silent and cold, and the river that had claimed his parents’ lives, once thought of as Enemy and Monster, had been just a body of water, uncaring as the house where he’d lived. No, not uncaring, just unchanged. Just aloof. Just... there.

The monsters were not from outside. The blame and the denial and the whys couldn’t be fastened upon something external. Today had but proven it. The enemy was inside. In him, somehow. In the way he acted. The way he looked. The way he thought. The way he was... different.

The stream still chuckled at him, splashing upwards, dancing away, echoing the barely-controlled chaos in his mind. It didn’t care, any more than the river… if only he could be like that. Aloof, untouched, wandering. Then he wouldn’t need to belong anywhere. He could just trip and wind wherever he wanted. Go haring off whenever he chose, escape this hidebound, parochial place called the Shire and find someplace where it didn’t matter what expectations he didn’t live up to. Like that old, so-called crazy cousin of his... Bilbo. He certainly didn’t seem to give a good damn what people said about him, just lived like a lord in his huge burrow. If that was crazy, then perhaps crazy wasn’t a bad thing, all well-off and comfortable and tucked away on the Hobbiton Hill, surrounded by treasure stolen on some great Adventure against dragons and trolls and things that were so outside the Shire that Frodo sometimes wondered if they truly existed or if they were just all tales. Like the tales in his mother’s book.

His hand stole into his pocket, fingers stroking the old leathern cover, yet once again he gained no comfort from it and he closed his hand angrily into a fist.

Perhaps he was just plain nuttier than Marina’s best spicecake and all of this talk of elves and trolls and dragons and monsters just that: children’s tales. And if there were no trolls and dragons, no monsters—no elves—then that would solve a lot of his own problems...

Frodo lurched upward and stood, once again unwilling to further the path his thoughts were treading; instead he looked for a path that his feet could tread. The thought that he might become lost simply didn’t occur to him; he’d found his way out of many a tangled thicket before, and he could do it again.

The major path quickly petered out, grew smaller. The trees, once as unreachable as the sky itself, now bent over him, arched into a green, still, tangled roof that was mere spans above his poll. It was now a tiny path that cushioned his toes, bare and narrow, made by hooves and pads instead of feet. Frodo became a little uneasy; the path kept winding, kept getting smaller, kept seemingly leading him into a circular dance. And the trees, once filled with huge and benign impartiality, now seemed to close about him almost oppressively.

He made a few more steps then halted. His eyes told him he was still going in a semblance of straightness, but his instincts claimed otherwise. Some part of his brain knew that he’d started circling inward, going nowhere. Once again panic teased at him: Run! it said. The only way to be safe here is to run, and run, and never stop…

"No," he whispered to it. Quickly he turned about and started back the way he’d come. The trees hovered, several low-hanging branches that he’d not noticed before raked through his thick curls, tugging sharply. He ducked and kept moving, but something was wrong.

This was not the way he’d come.

He looked about, saw nothing but more tangled and dense green, more damp, more moss and earth and quiet. This had to be the way he’d come. There was no other way. However nothing spoke to his senses of familiarity. It didn’t make sense. His breathing, long since calmed, began to grow rapid.

Run, it said. Then, deeper and more inexorable: Give us sport, boy. Run.

Frodo sucked in a large breath, remembering what Old Rory had said. They watch you… they’re not just trees… they’ll lose you and take you…

He wished fiercely for Rory’s map. Even if it was wrong, it would be something. Closing his eyes, Frodo clenched his fists, forced calm. There might be things at the Hall that he could not control, but this he could. For someone that was often doubted possessing any modicum of hobbit-sense, Frodo knew his sense of direction and wood-craft was excellent. Even Merry, keen as his young mind was, couldn’t best him here.

That way. He opened his eyes. There was no path, nothing to prove that anything had even been through there, but he slogged through the bracken and wound through the huge trees and clambered over smaller rocks and circumnavigated the larger ones and was rewarded when the canopy began to lift and the undergrowth began to thin, betraying itself as areas where the sun rarely shone through. Whatever grew here had to reach tall to achieve any exposure to the golden, life-giving rays.

Smiling pleasedly to himself, Frodo rounded another rather-large rock pile then froze mid-stride.

The pile of rocks contained a small cave, and in front of the cave stood the occupant. It was huge. Almost the size of a pony, brindled grey and brown and beige. Lips curled back over long, sharp teeth, head lowered and yellow eyes staring at him. From behind the wolf, several small yips issued and Frodo knew that he was in serious, serious trouble. It was a mother wolf. And those tiny yips were her cubs.

Run.

But the Forest hadn’t counted on his inset reaction to panic. Running was a considered thing—Frodo’s primary instincts declared otherwise. Heart leaping into his throat and nearly gagging him, he stood frozen, trembling, unable to move had he tried, eyes locked with the brindled bitch. A growl rose from her chest, rumbled out past those white teeth.

The sound broke the spell. Coherence flooded through him, demanding action and he did the only thing that he could. Slowly, ever so slowly Frodo lifted one foot, set it backwards, put it down just as slowly. And again. Again. He managed to put several more meters between them, sweat rolling down his spine, down his forehead. It stung his eyes, but he didn’t dare to wipe it away. He knew without doubt that if he made any sudden moves she’d go for him. All he could do was keep up this slow, painstaking retreat, hoping against hope that he didn’t trip on some tree root.

Then the stakes abruptly changed. From his right and left came several more growls.

Run!

He whirled and bolted.

In a trice they were after him, silent and fast. He hadn’t much of a start, and within seconds he could feel their hot breath on his heels, could hear the heave of their bodies as they ran and for moments had the despairing wish to just give in, to fall down and curl into a ball and let them take him because they were going to anyway, any moment...

But they didn’t. He didn’t spare any speed to look back but they didn’t leap on him, didn’t attack. They were toying with him, Frodo suddenly realized, running him down as if he were a deer. The trees were once again close, shorter; a branch smacked against his face and the path grew more uneven underfoot. He kept going, hoping once more that he didn’t trip--it would be the end of him. One of the wolves gave a short series of barks; it was answered from somewhere off to Frodo’s left and something in his breast screwed itself up and rebelled and gave him an extra burst of speed. Another branch snagged at his hair and he pulled aside, felt his scalp sting as he ducked. A thought burst upon his mind like a star and the next branch that nearly smacked him in the face he reached for, grabbed and gave a mighty heave, twisting upwards and swinging his legs right out of the path of the wolves as several others came crashing through the underbrush.

The branch buckled beneath his weight and sent him plunging downwards once more; one of the wolves twisted with unbelievable swiftness and lunged back at him. Fire burned in Frodo’s calf; he screamed and hauled upwards and both cloth and flesh ripped as he yanked his leg upward from the wolf’s teeth and kept climbing, scrambling, shimmying...

Safe. Frodo collapsed upon the branch close to where it met the tree’s trunk and molded to it, wiry arms clinging, breastbone and forehead tight against rough bark, his bitten leg quivering and sending shooting pains up to his hipbone. His breath came in huge gasps, sobs violently raking his small, taut frame.

Below the wolves growled, snapped amongst themselves. The bitch was nowhere to be seen, but her pack had responded and there was a full complement of seven wolves ringing and pacing below his refuge. The boy closed his eyes, tried to swallow breath back into his lungs and failed; it was all he could to hang on, he was shaking so violently with tears and fright and pain. One of the wolves rose furiously up on its hindquarters and tore at the bark with its front claws; Frodo watched numbly as it tried to climb the huge trunk, then felt relief swamp him as, thwarted, the wolf slid back down to the ground. Another one eyed him furiously, crouched and hopped into the air; Frodo jerked back, almost losing his grip on the branch, a small wail escaping his chest as teeth snapped so close that he could feel the fetid breath of their passing. He cowered back closer to the trunk, folding his legs to his torso, a tight, trembling knot of terrified hobbit.

The wolves, their prey no longer dangling above them like teasing bait, settled down. However they did not leave—they knew they had drawn blood and this prey was not only wounded, but little. Protective instinct had turned its powerful motivation to hunger. It was only a matter of time.

Long moments passed. Tongues lolling, the wolves waited below, some even sprawling on their bellies, others resting on their haunches, all watching him. Frodo gained unexpected benefit from their patience. Slowly, surely, his tremors eased and the panic melted into a little hard knot of fear that was more easily dealt with. Adrenaline seeped from his pores, further dispelling the flight reflex that had taken him over. His breath eased. His leg, still throbbing with fire, upon inspection proved to be not a gaping bite but merely a nasty, bloody gash—his worn, thick trousers, ripped by the wolf’s teeth, had obviously provided some protection. The scrapes the tree branches had left upon his cheeks and forehead didn’t even smear blood upon his fingertips—he’d gotten worse falling from the tree platform. Heaving a huge sigh, he leaned back against the tree trunk.

Several of the wolves alerted at the sound, began eagerly pacing below him once more. Frodo watched them, panic threatening to set in once more. What was he going to do? He couldn’t just stay here forever...

Unexpectedly all the pack were on their feet, tense and alert. Oddly enough, they all turned away from their treed quarry, looking outward. Several paced back and forth; one whined, another growled. A sound like a focused swarm of furious bees ripped into the quiet, then another; two of the pack fell without a sound.

Hoofbeats. The remaining wolves vanished, melting like smoke into the undergrowth. In amazement Frodo lurched forward along the branch and clung hard to the bark beneath his fingers, peering uncertainly down at the two lupine bodies sprawled in the bracken. There were indeed arrows sticking from brindled ribs and thick-furred chest. But they were like no arrow he had ever seen; they gleamed amongst the coarse fur, sprouting from new crimson, thin, fine shafts of electrum.

"A halfling in a tree!" rang a silvery, light voice. "Now there’s a sight to sing about, for it’s one I’ve yet to behold—until now!"

Wondering at this newest turn of fortune, Frodo clung tighter to his refuge, laid his cheek firmly to the branch and peered through the green leaves.

A lithe, long-legged figure came into view beneath him, strode easily toward the tree. Clad in golds and bronze and a green the color of cypress needles, with hair dark as Frodo’s but more like a raven’s wing, smooth without the hints of russet his own curls revealed in sunlight. Sharp-tipped ears broke the line of glossy mane and a gaze considering and clear as pool water angled upward, met and held his.

An elf. A real elf.

Frodo’s breath knocked within his chest and he stared, unable to break the serene, implacable gaze that pinned him upward as surely as the wolves had.

"By the jewels of the sky, you’re all eyes, youngling. I shan’t eat you, though you were wise to not have given the wolves such trust. Come down!"

Suddenly he had a vision of himself as the elf saw him: small and forlorn, grubby and torn, clinging tightly to the branch like a huge-eyed treewee. It made him uncertain, hesitant. His rescuer mistook his reticence for fear and the high-planed face softened, became less like marble and more like warm flesh. The elf came even closer, held his arms up. Frodo thought he had climbed quite a ways, but the distance seemed suddenly negligible between branch and ground when compared to this one’s reach. No wonder the wolves had tried the leap.

"Come, little one. I shan’t hurt you. Come to me."

It was impossible to refuse; though he could have well descended on his own, Frodo was suddenly glad for the assistance and with no further hesitation released his hold on the branch and swung downwards, hanging from his arms. Slender hands gripped his waist, and he let go of the branch. For several moments he was cradled against the broad chest, held securely as a child in its mother’s arms. The jerkin that the elf wore was like down against his cheek, softer than any leather he’d ever touched, and it smelled not of dyes and tanning solvent, but of juniper and crushed acorns.

Then the strong arms set him down as gently as if he were a feather wafting to the ground and Frodo found himself extraordinarily disconcerted as his eyes met not a face, but a silver-filigreed buckle that clasped a belt about the middle of the dark-green tunic. He swallowed hard, drawing his gaze upward to behold the tallest, most glorious being he had ever seen.

No wonder the elf could hold him as negligently as if he were an unbreeched babe. To him he must seem one. Completely overfaced, Frodo tried to back, wobbled on his bitten leg.

Winged, dark brows drew together. "You’re hurt, little one..."

A high burst of sound, musical and questioning, broke the silence.

Frodo turned to face this new intrusion and backed again, this time smack into his rescuer. There were two others, both tall, both fair as the dawn—and both as remotely unnerving as the strange interlude between dusk and darkness, where shadows would shift and color the landscape with unseen movement. They were dressed in similar summer-hued fashion to the one who had taken him from the tree: tunic, jerkin, trous and knee-high boots. Even their hair was dressed in much the same fashion, tied back from marble foreheads that were unmarred by sun-browning or freckles, the locks long and shining, straighter than he’d ever imagined hair to grow. It looked like corn silk, darkened and cured by summer. They held the reins to three of the largest ponies—no, horses!—that Frodo had yet seen. Even the Big People that traversed the Brandywine upon occasion did not have mounts so glossy and well-muscled, so royal of bearing as these three horses.

His rescuer put a hand upon his shoulder and oddly enough there was comfort in the gesture, easing away what unease thought to rise in his breast. The tall one spoke to the strange sound that indeed must have been a question, but his words were well-understandable, if oddly accented. "What have I found? The wolves’ supper, treed and snared, is what I found. But supper no longer; the pack has dispersed."

One came forward, brows and lips quirked in quizzical bemusement, stood over him, then knelt. She—and the only way Frodo could guess at this designation was from the small breasts lifting her tunic—peered into his eyes and, his own brows drawing together in uncertainty, Frodo peered back.

She seemed surprised at this, broke the gaze to query something further in the liquid, breathy speech. Frodo’s rescuer answered, still comprehendably.

"It is of the periannath, cousin. Be good enough to speak in a tongue it can understand."

"As you say, Elladan." This from the other male who obviously took his leader’s cue as to speech patterns, for the sentence was also discernable to Frodo. "But it must be quite young, for it is so tiny."

"They are all small, the Shirelings. Even the elders."

The female elf was still bent down before Frodo; she reached out and fingered his cheek with a cool feather-touch that made his stomach knot quite peculiarly. "I have never seen one before," she ventured, consideringly soft.

"I’d dare venture doubt that it has ever seen one of us either."

"It is quite fair and slender. I had heard the periannath were brown as nut-berries and stout as small trees."

"Well, it is still a child."

"Is it male or female?"

This was entirely too much. "I’m male!" Frodo burst out, then furthered, driven past any reticence to continue being talked around, "I’m almost a tweenager. I’m not a child, not really. And I’ve never seen any of your kind, but I know what you are. I’ve read a lot."

His companions’ eyes riveted to him and he nearly swallowed his tongue, angling back once again and unwittingly into the one called Elladan. Suddenly clear laughter rang from behind him and into the forest. Frodo twisted, looked upward in consternation and the elf knelt to his level, still chuckling.

"Well said, young halfling, well said! ‘Twas quite rude of us to talk about you as though you were not present. Now let us see to that leg—such bites can be very nasty if left untended."

Once again Frodo was picked up with that rather-disturbing and negligible ease; however before he thought to protest or squirm loose, he was gently lowered to a prone log that was still sturdy and unrotted. The elf took Frodo’s ankle, settling the broad foot against his own slender leg, quizzically inspecting then patting at the dark fur upon his toes with a curious delight that made a smile quirk at Frodo’s own lips. It was relieving and somewhat endearing to think that hobbits must surely seem as dissimilar to these beings as they seemed to him.

The horses just stayed where left, seemingly content. Their riders each took a seat to either end of the log, settling beside him. It was odd to have them so close, so brilliant—he was literally surrounded by the three of them as his rescuer knelt before him. And they stared at him. Their gazes were not hostile, or contemptuous, merely unabashedly direct and curious; nevertheless it made him more than a bit discomfited.

Elladan, kneeling at his feet, somewhat dispelled the overwhelming aspects of sitting with legends by keeping up a matter-of-fact bit of chatter as he pushed the ripped trouser leg upward and inspected the bite on Frodo’s calf with a careful, capable touch. "So. Lad," he emphasized, "how many winters have you, then?"

"Nearly twenty."

"I see. Well, that is quite a respectable age." The elf smiled rather dazzlingly—and a bit teasingly, Frodo thought. "And what brings you here? The Forest is no place for solo travelers, as you have discovered."

"I..." Frodo looked down, suddenly unwilling to speak any further, to even suggest to these luminous beings of what confusion had claimed him and driven him here.

Strong, cool fingers gripped his chin and angled his face upwards and to the right. It was the female elf, her thin, dark brows quirked with something that seemed akin to concern. Her eyes met his, shimmering; her lovely face twisted with sudden sympathy and she took her free hand and laid the smooth palm across his forehead. He drew in a surprised breath; it was as if he could feel her concern and sorrow echoing his own, funneling outward and inward and somehow washing over him, making every hair follicle on his body stand up and shiver. Pleasant at first, warming as fresh, new-drawn milk, twining about his senses and rising them… and unlike what physicality and reaction inspired earlier in his frame, this went deeper still and was curiously comfortable, somehow familiar, wanted.

Then something deep within him stirred, protested. Refused. Abruptly, the welcome sensations grated all too closely. The she-elf’s gaze flickered with something that resembled insurety; Frodo’s chest heaved and his eyes banked up against hers in denial…

"Lirandilė!" Elladan’s voice was sharp, breaking the spell. The female’s eyes dropped away from Frodo’s own and he fell back with a small whimper, almost toppling from the log. Elladan’s hand still clutching to his ankle was the only thing that kept him seated. There was nowhere to go but back so he simply hunched there, his breath clutching at his chest, his eyes flickering restively beneath half-closed lids, his cheeks hot. The elves conversed rather furiously in their own speech about him; Frodo caught again the word periannath, which he knew was their word for halfling. Elladan—who seemed somehow angry—spoke the loudest, and within the vast torrent of unfamiliar words rose one that Frodo also knew from what he’d been able to glean from the small amount of Elvish in his mother’s book: atar. Father. Then silence fell. Frodo stayed hunched there, regathering his wits and uncertain as to what had just happened; he looked warily sideways at them.

Elladan’s face was not angry, however, no matter the sharp tone of his speech. It was openly concerned. "I am sorry, youngling," he told Frodo. "My cousin sensed that you were troubled and she thought only to help you. She did not expect that you would react the way you did."

"React?"

That is impossible—he is but a halfling youth!

Frodo blinked. No one had spoken. But he’d heard the voices… and understood them…

Elladan’s grey eyes met his, widened infinitesimally, then darted towards Lirandilė. He shot a command at her, and despite the fact Frodo had no idea of what he said, the intent was clear. He was ordering her silent.

She hadn’t spoken. Frodo would have sworn that no word passed her lips. But that was surely impossible. He must have just not seen it.

"Shall we introduce ourselves?" the elf said with quiet finality, releasing Frodo’s ankle to rise and stride over to the great bay that waited so patiently. Rummaging in a pack athwart the stallion’s croup, he came back with a small vial, two leather flasks one of which he handed to the still-silent male elf, and a length of pale gauze which he passed to Lirandilė so that he could further his attention to Frodo’s leg. "We’ve taken rather a running start and no names to hold each other to. I am, as you heard, Elladan of Rivendell."

"Rivendell?" Frodo sat up in recognition, and also in pained reaction as Elladan poured stingingly cold water from the first flask over the gash on his calf.

"Here." He was handed the other flask by the quieter male; Lirandilė told him, "Take a sip of this… only a sip, mind you." Frodo took it a bit gingerly, eyed it even moreso. "It will help the pain."

He sipped, felt warmth sparkle on his tongue and up into his nose, swallowed and felt that same warmth travel down his gullet like molten silver. He smiled at the third elf as he took the flask from him and capped it.

"You know of Rivendell from your reading, then?" Elladan leaned forward and scrubbed a bit briskly at the clotted blood. Frodo winced, expecting pain, however there was only very mild discomfort. Whatever was in that cordial worked quite rapidly. "My cousins are also from there: this is Lirandilė, as you heard, and Lirasilo her brother."

"I’m pleased to meet you," Frodo ventured a bit shyly, then, more eagerly, "A cousin of mine has journeyed to Rivendell. I do not know him well, but I’ve heard the stories."

"Cousin?" Elladan said with a frown. Lirandilė and Lirasilo also halted curiously. "There is only one halfling who has come to my father’s house. What is your name, boy?"

"Frodo. Frodo Baggins."

Sister and brother exchanged glances. Elladan’s grey eyes sparked indefinably, widened. Such undeniable reaction on faces that had hitherto been so pleasant and almost unreadably smooth flamed a response within Frodo’s own belly and he spoke almost without thinking, before being aware that he might not want to know the answer to what he asked.

"Do you know me?"

The elf stared at him for long moments, as if aware of and gauging his uncertainty. Then he lowered his gaze and took the small vial, uncapped it and ran it in a swath along the opened wound. Frodo twitched; in its wake was an icy tingle that turned pale blue. "I know your cousin, if it is Bilbo Baggins of whom you speak." He leaned closer, touched the vial to the scratches upon the hobbit’s face; again, the icy, pleasant sensation. "What was your mother’s name, little one?"

"Primula Brandybuck Baggins."

"Ah." It was muted. "I see, now."

"You… see?" Frodo queried softly, brows knitted with puzzlement.

Something twitched along the smooth, alabaster cheek. "Is your mother still alive, Frodo?"

"No."

The clear eyes shimmered and Elladan laid a palm to Frodo’s cheek. This time the touch was cool and impersonal and very supportive—not intrusive, welcome or otherwise. "I am sorry, little one. I too know what it’s like to lose a mother."

"You do?"

"Yes."

Frodo peered at him, saw truth and sorrow set deep into the glittering gaze. Impulsively he reached up and touched the elf’s hand. "I’m sorry, too."

Elladan smiled, twined his hand about the hobbit’s. Frodo gulped a bit as his own fingers were proven unbelievingly tiny within the pale length of the elf’s grip. "I know you are, melyanna."

Another word he didn’t comprehend. But it seemed a kind one, and one that eased his strange feelings of displacement.

"Are you thirsty, little one?" This from Lirandilė, who rose and went over to the mounts and their saddlebags. "Or hungry? ’Tis nearly time for us to dine, anyway. Elladan, do you comply?"

Elladan rolled down Frodo’s trouser leg and lightly patted his knee. "I do. And from the look in his eye, so does master Baggins."

* * * * * *

"Frodo? Frodo!"

The small, enclosed platform echoed emptily as he climbed up into it. Nothing stirred. There was no one there.

It was the last place Meriadoc knew to look. He slumped against the tree trunk, slid down it until his buttocks rested on the wood-planked flooring. Beyond the treetops outside, upon the bend of the river, the sun was beginning an all-too-quick descent.

His parents had refused to look past the peripheries of the Hall. After all, Frodo had run away before. He’d always come back. If he wasn’t back by morning, they’d go looking, but until then there was no sense wasting every resource on a tantrum.

But Merry couldn’t forget what Pippin had said to him at tea, barely an hour after Frodo had disappeared from their room. How the whole thing had started, and ended. How it didn’t make sense. Why would Frodo run away just because his mother had smacked him? Merry had sometimes gotten a licking—at times he knew he’d deserved it, other times it had seemed most unfair—and he knew Frodo had been in for his share as well.

Neither could he forget what had happened during lunchtime. The pent-up strangeness of his cousin’s room, heavy and close and lit only by a lamp when normally the shutters and door were flung open to light and air. Frodo standing in the dark, wet and quivering and ill-seeming, with a hectic flush to his face and a glassy, flat light behind his eyes that Merry had never before seen… no, he’d seen him look that way once. Five years ago, a killing fever had swept through the hall. Merry for some reason hadn’t caught it himself, but Frodo had, and he’d fallen so ill that Esmeralda had bedded him down in the old nursery within the Master’s quarters and had stayed up all night bathing the fever away with chill, herb-strewn water.

Then, when Merry had finally been allowed to see Frodo, when he’d reached out to him Frodo had clung to his hand like someone drowning. But today he’d growled at him like some cornered cur. Pushed him away. Frodo was more and more pushing him away…

Frodo was changing, somehow.

But it couldn’t matter, whatever it was. The changing couldn’t mean anything, not to them. Merry quite frankly couldn’t remember a time when Frodo hadn’t been there. Even before his parents had died and he’d moved to the Hall, they had played together. Often Merry had gone to visit the up-river farm and spent the time contentedly tagging along behind his older cousin: they’d swim in the river that was almost in the backyard of the little house, or swing from low-hanging branches, or camp on the porch, or spend the days on the downs with the sheep. The latter had been the most pleasant, lying tangled and contented as milk-glutted puppies on the cropped turf while Frodo showed him how to make water-reed whistles and how to blow herding commands to the two collie dogs that helped run Drogo’s herd.

And after Frodo had come here, Merry had been sad that his cousin had lost his parents, but also unrepentantly glad because it meant that Frodo was theirs now, and would be with them forever. Those first months Merry had hardly spent a night without crawling into bed with his cousin; even his mother’s protests and his father’s peeling a hazel switch and several times using it had made no dint in his wish to be with Frodo every possible hour. Frodo called him his little shadow; Granda Rory had complained about Frodo spoiling Merry rotten. Merry broke his arm trying to climb a tree; Frodo had been the one to hold him while his mother set the bone. Frodo had forgotten how to swim; Merry taught him. Back and forth, give and take, and as they’d matured the games had happily stayed the same, mischief and madness in happy tandem: running wild, playing hide and seek in the vineyard rows, riding in the back of the pickers’ wagons and nicking grapes when no one was looking.

Yes, it had all stayed the same—a long, giddy and golden afternoon of hobbit childhood. Until lately.

The wind picked up, made the boughs of the old willow creak. The susurrus of leaves rubbing together sounded like the stiffness of fine fabric just off the loom. The river lapped at the stones, echoed in the little cave. Normally it would all be quite soothing, but Merry’s stomach was tying itself into intricate knots. Where had Frodo gone?

He’d been everywhere he could think of. Here at the river bottoms. The barns. The ferry. The cellars. The attic. He’d even snuck off to Frodo’s former home, but the little smial was occupied right now with relatives from the Southfarthing. Occasionally his parents used it as a guest cottage—better that than let it sit too empty and idle. Houses were even worse than burrows in that they did not do well when left untended and unlived in, or so his parents said; if Frodo was to reclaim it when he came of age, then better he’d eventually have something worth inheriting.

Several people had mentioned when questioned that yes, they’d seen the lad running across the common and out the Hill gate as if something was chasing him, but hadn’t seen him since then.

What was chasing him? Why had he run? Was he indeed sickening with something? It bothered Merry past reason. Because he should know why Frodo ran. He should know what was going on. Frodo was his best friend and he should know what was wrong. He always had before.

Merry curled up, knees pulled into his chest, arms laced about his folded legs, chin on his kneecaps. He stared out through the open side of the treehouse toward the sunset, his dark blue eyes clouded and miserable.

Pippin was worried. Pippin was only a baby, but he knew enough to be worried and he was Frodo’s bunkmate and spent more time lately with Frodo than even Merry himself.

The knot in his belly twisted tighter.

Even Pippin knew enough to be worried. Of course he didn’t know why he was worried, but he was. He’d even tried to give Frodo a hug, but Frodo had wanted none of it. Frodo had run away.

Frodo had run away...

It was as if pieces to a intricate and complicated puzzle were edging together in his mind. He squirmed, uncertain as to the meaning of the picture that was forming; the only surety within his breast was that he didn’t like it, whatever it was.

How his cousin would never look him in the eye when he was upset. How he would grow still at the comments that seemed to more and more be directed his way, then smile—not his normal, wide smile, but a flat one—and change the subject. How his mother’s voice, more and more, would have an edge to it as she would speak to Frodo, how her words, seemingly unimportant, would kindle fire within the large blue eyes and flame brilliantly along sparsely-freckled cheeks. How his father never reached out, never so much as offered to touch him. How Lotho watched Frodo with a fixated, edged purpose that made Merry intuitively uncomfortable, even if he wasn’t sure why. How once his cousin’s expressions had been as transparent as crystal—but were now more and more shuttered away. Even against Merry himself.

How Pippin seemed to so easily be able to make Frodo smile…

His belly cranked horribly hard, soured. What question had Pippin asked that Frodo couldn’t answer?

And what right had Pippin—pesky little Peregrin Took—to be able to ask such a question?

Running. Changing.

Why couldn’t things just stay the same?

For something had changed. Something was different behind Frodo’s eyes, and something was twisting itself within Merry’s own heart. Before there had always been a warm brilliance about his cousin’s presence. Now it was chill and uninviting, warning him off and, on the rare occasions when he did gain access, seemed to take him down into frighteningly deep places.

Frodo didn’t seem to need him about anymore. He had Pippin. Merry wasn’t the baby any more. Wasn’t special any more it seemed, particularly in his beloved cousin’s suddenly-changing eyes.

Merry watched the sun sink into the trees, his deep and discerning gaze reflecting the fiery descent, crimson within indigo.

* * * * * *

The forest had been dark for some time where they had made a temporary campsite, but Frodo no longer felt the least amount of trepidation. There was a small, cheerful fire laid in the middle of the glade, crafted from fallen wood—he had been told earnestly by Elladan that to cut any bough in this forest would merely make it more angry than it already was, even if one of the sylvan folk did so.

Frodo could well believe that this forest held a grudge.

The elves seemed as fascinated with him as he was by them. They feted him grandly; for all the royal bearing they gave it the meal could have been a king’s feast instead of a simple repast of waybread, gathered herbs and roots, and several roasted coneys the bones of which were still toasting next to the fire. Frodo had brought the little rodents down himself. The elves had seemed well-nigh impressed when he’d pulled out the sling that was never far from any hobbitlad’s pocket, fitted a suitable stone to it and proceeded to unerringly bull’s-eye that part of their supper. Elladan had skinned and prepared the meal, accepting Frodo’s offer of help, and the young hobbit’s ribs still ached from the sharp, sly wit that his elvish hunting companion had expressed.

Now Frodo was well-fed, warm, and feeling decidedly mellow from a nice-sized tot of the sweetest wine he’d ever in his life tasted. He could scarcely believe his turn of fortune. From nearly being wolf supper to having supper with elves! After they’d finished their repast Lirandilė had taken a small, gilt-stringed lap harp from her pack and began to play; her quiet brother showed that he could use his voice well by singing a long, soft ballad. Frodo didn’t understood the words, but the sound of them and the music that accompanied them made his heart beat strangely and wistfully.

They were everything he’d even imagined, and more. But—and his heart beat even more speedily—they were so different. So totally unlike anything he’d ever known.

So unlike himself.

Brows quirking, Frodo settled against the saddle that Lirasilo had offered up to him as a back cushion—the horses were untacked and nibbling peacefully on what shoots they could discover about the forest floor—and contemplated his companions. Lirandilė, so darkly-delicate and lovely, pale limbs curled beneath her as slender fingers trailed across the strings of her harp. Lirasilo, cool and gentle, his face like alabaster despite the fire’s warmth and glow upon it. And Elladan, obviously the eldest and the most sure, with easy, graceful manners and hidden strength within a lithe frame.

Countless times he’d heard that he resembled one of these beings, but reality gave it the lie. Next to them he felt absurdedly small, coarse and clumsy and uncrafted as an ill-thrown piece of pottery. How could he possibly have any connection to them?

Periannath, Elladan had said, then: atar. And melyana. What else had he said?

Lirandilė’s voice: I swear I did nothing purposeful, Elladan. I know it is forbidden… It was as if he… knew.

Knew what? And the strange looks upon their faces when they’d found out who his mother was…

"Do you know me?"

He wished he could get up the courage to ask it again. For they hadn’t answered him. But what if he did ask? What if they did know—and it wasn’t the right answer?

What answer could possibly be the right one?

The answer that would alienate him from hobbitkind, not just by rumor, but irretrievably and forever? What if the speculations and the gutter curses and the insinuations were true, and he was doomed to be as set adrift from his mother’s people as these elves were set apart from him?

Resentment flared in him, hot and high, and he nearly gasped aloud with abrupt realization, a penultimate betrayal that he suddenly kenned all too well. If his mother had indeed done this thing, why had she? Hadn’t she understand what it would mean? What it would do to him, to his life, to his world?

Was it really his world? Maybe this was why he felt as if he had never belonged. Maybe what he felt towards these beings was what so many people felt towards him. Maybe his difference, his ‘elvishness’, had cause.

Maybe it was true.

And if it wasn’t? What then? What did it mean that there was no reason of heredity for his difference—that he was no cuckoo’s egg left to prosper in a far-off nest, but he was purely and simply his father’s child? Frodo Baggins, own son of Drogo, engendered not of immortal fire but of homespun earthly court, of Buckland, of the Shire.

What of the inarguable fact that he was a too-rapid heartbeat, an odd dissonance within the concert of the everyday? Was it not because of something that had happened before he was born, but because of something after? Not due to something that was of his parents’ actions, but quite possibly of his own? That his aunt and uncle gave him a wide, uneasy berth and the Bucklanders considered him quite odd because he just was odd? Was that any more comforting?

What was he? And what was he meant to be?

The music had stopped. He became suddenly aware of the silence, of the three sets of eyes that were fixed upon him with naked concern. His face quivered, flamed, then lowered until his chin met his collar.

"The music such as my cousins play and sing can be very daunting to mortal sensibilities," Elladan said softly. "Such beauty is not always easily held within the heart. Let it go, Frodo. Try not to hold it too tightly. It only hurts the worse when you do."

"I..." the words choked him, but moreso were the tears choking him. They rose unasked for, swamping him miserably.

"Here, here," Elladan came closer, knelt beside him. "I think this day has been too much for you, little one." Cool fingers pushed the hair back from his forehead, took his chin and lifted it up. Frodo’s tear-filled eyes met the elf’s; for long moments all the questions in his universe crowded behind his gaze, longing utterance.

But fear strangled them. He was afraid. He was afraid to know the truth.

If Elladan read anything behind the troubled countenance, he did not say. He laid hands on Frodo’s shoulders and pushed him back, gently if inexorably. "Perhaps we need to return you to your home now."

"N… no!" Frodo stammered.

"Surely you have ones who will worry after you, vaninyo." This from Lirandilė, concern written in every line of her high-planed features. "If you were mine I should be greatly troubled did you not come home when you should."

If you were mine… He hunched over, suddenly snarled and gutted so fiercely by their tenderness that he wanted to howl out loud like the wolves that had thought to take him down.

"Here…" Long fingers curled about his shoulders, "Here, now…"

Frodo shook his head fiercely, unable to speak, afraid that if he did form words it would all come spilling from him in shaming clarity: every fear, every doubt, every wish. He was dimly aware as they began talking about him in their natural tongue, but he put his hands over his ears and his face down against his knees, abjectly unwilling to hear any more stray words that would insert more ambiguity into an already-tenuous existence.

Elladan’s hands gripped tighter, clenching so fiercely that Frodo rose from the waves of misery with a gasp. "Frodo," the elf ventured consideringly, "why do you not want to return to your people?"

Because I’m not even sure that they are my people… because they don’t want me… because…

"If you were mine…"

"Let me stay!" he blurted out suddenly. "Can I stay here, with you?"

This had clearly not been even expected; Elladan blinked, angled back and stared at him. Then seeing that his small companion was indeed in earnest, the elf seemed to regather his thoughts. His fingers twitched upon Frodo’s arms, relaxed their uncompromising grip.

"Please?" Frodo half-whispered the entreaty. Could I belong here? Do I, can I, will you let me… no one would miss me, no one would care…

Elladan’s face blanched, almost as if Frodo’s interior plea had spoken itself aloud. The elf studied him for long moments; once he did finally speak it was oddly reticent. "Perhaps some day," he ventured, "when the time is right, you will come to us."

Frodo felt his cheeks grow hot again, this time with sudden shame, and lowered his head. "But not now."

"I realize that you are not a child. Any being that has the life-heat singing through them as fiercely as you do right now can no longer be considered a child. But your soul needs to catch up with your body. You are still young. You belong with your family."

"I have no family, not any more." It was a murmur. None that want me. And now you don’t want me, either…

"I am sorry, melyanna," Elladan murmured. "If I could bring them back for you, believe that I would. But I cannot believe there is none in your home who does not love and need you, that there is no one to miss you." Again he placed fingertips beneath the hobbit’s chin, raised the blue eyes to meet his own. "No one who can respond to love as you do has lived in total bereavement of it."

Frodo thought of Merry, of Pippin, of how he was steadily retreating from their affection, and was stricken nearly dumb.

Elladan watched him with troubled consideration. Then he took Frodo’s face in his hands, once more pushed the unruly bang aside and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. The slight, feathery touch lingered, and as it did it seemed to unknot all the tight lumps in his belly, to turn his bones to water, to ease keyed-up nerve endings and reactions and leave him with feelings of comfort and steadiness and unflagging tenderness…

Running giddily through the meadows, clad in nothing but summer sun and laughter, giggling as his mother chases him, bent nearly double with her own mirth despite her threats that if he doesn’t come back, right now, and take that bath… and when she finally does manage to catch him, how she scoops him up and cuddles him so tightly that he can’t decide if he’s gladly suffocating beneath love or laughter…

"Melyanna vanwe," Elladan whispered, "how much has taken refuge in the shadow?" and Frodo stared at him, eyes huge and black and filled with the dreaming…

"It’s all about what your body tells them, lad. If you know what you’re doing, and believe it, then the collies know, too." His father’s hands pulling at his shoulders, opening his chest to the sheep and the herding canines. "If you don’t stand proud and know what you’re about, then how do you expect them to?"

"See?" the elf said, stroking his cheek. "You know of what I speak. Only by opening yourself to such can you come out the other side whole."

Frodo closed his eyes, bent his head into the smooth, strong hands and hung there, gentled and willing…

"Frodo? Frodo, don’t be so sick. Please, come back…"

Frodo jerked upwards, as if coming violently from slumber. He hadn’t meant to; it was as if something buried deep within him had rebelled, turned aside. Just as he’d done earlier with Lirandilė—primal and instinctive, unstoppable and strong, as if the flame had rebuffed the moth dancing too closely and dangerously. His ears felt hot; his head pounded madly, and Frodo took in a sharp breath, blinked at Elladan a bit confusedly.

Elladan did not seem surprised. But neither did he draw away from the seeming rebuff. Instead he leaned closer; Frodo angled back irresolutely, but the elf implacably followed, touched his forehead, whispered something in his own tongue. The fierce headache numbed itself to heated pulse points in Frodo’s temples, and the elf’s breath cooled his cheeks, sweetly wafting upon his forehead, riffling his hair gently. It seemed to fill him, to seep into empty places and soften the sharp edges that bordered them.

"Even so. Do you still think," Elladan said quietly, "that you have no one who will care if you are gone?"

Merry… Frodo raised his head, took a deep breath.

Elladan gazed at him for long moments, and it seemed that there were both clouds and stars in his grey eyes, fathomless and unreachable. Then the elf straightened, directing his words to all present.

"Dawn is not too far away, my friends. We must break camp."

* * * * * *

The ride home was part of the mystery: magical, enchanting, a fantasy given all-too-short life. Frodo rode behind Elladan, the wide loins of the bay stallion seeming a couch, the long stride that was so different and much more comfortable than a pony’s cobby steps rocking him gently back and forth as they walked. The locked forest gate had opened at a word and, clad in waning moonlight, the elven trio and their small passenger, half-dozing against Elladan’s broad, straight back, moved closer into the Shire on near-silent hooves.

They reached the Hall boundaries, the rocky walls hunched against the rolling landscape, the vineyards sweetly surrounding with the blossom of first fruits. Dawn was no more than an hour away but the night lanterns still gleamed on their holders by the gate. He could see the illumination of a few night-lights rising over Buck Hill from the Hall courtyard, yet when Frodo thought to hang back, to sink inward, he found himself instead impelled to look up, to look ahead. The courage that Elladan had somehow breathed into him still hummed in his chest and beat through his veins, bewitching him into bliss.

They halted at the Buckland wall. "This is as far as we should go, melyanna," Elladan spoke; it might have been the voice of the wind, for it carried but to Frodo and the sharp ears of the other two elves then wafted into a different sound. Frodo didn’t move, his eyes fixed on the illumination of the Hall.

"Why do you call me that?" he whispered.

"Because it is what you are." Elladan reached back and securely gripped Frodo’s left arm, helped Frodo swing sideways and slide down from the stallion’s sixteen hand croup. Once the young halfling was steadily grounded Elladan, still holding to his arm, bent downwards and fixed a crystalline gaze earnestly upon him. "You are one with us, always. You are elf-friend, Frodo Baggins. Whatever happens, never forget that."

Frodo stared upward at him quite seriously, somehow aware of the gravity of what was being offered. Those deep eyes pierced him, a shaft of starbright through his chest, filling him. A soft smile touching his face, Frodo ducked his chin then turned and ran, through the gate and up the Hill.

"Elladan." This from Lirandilė as she rode up closer beside him, Lirasilo not far behind. Elladan’s stallion nipped playfully at her mare; he slapped affectionately at the great neck but did not turn to either of his cousins, watching the small, dark figure disappear into the mists, reappear halfway up the side of Buck Hill and vanish once more over the top of it.

"I know you felt it, Elladan. How could you not? We must do something."

His face might have been carven in stone—save his eyes. They were still filled with clouds and shadows, uncertain. "You know that our hands are tied in this, Lirandilė. I have done what I could."

Lirasilo spoke, his words soft but heavy with meaning. "This is… wrong."

"I know." It was vehement. "But I also know that there has been interference enough. I dare do nothing more until I have spoken to my father."

* * * * * *

Esmeralda was in the kitchen, doing busy work to keep herself occupied. She had refused to feel worry all day, but once the sun had set, once night had fallen in earnest and curfew had passed and the gates had been shut against evening traffic, worry had indeed settled in the pit of her stomach, blossoming larger with each small task she created and finished.

He had run before, yes. But he had never been gone this long before...

She had tried to sleep. Sleep had eluded her. She had set the sponge to catch the yeast for baking tomorrow. True, it had already been done by one of Marina’s assistants, but the girl was young and new and Esme wanted to make sure it was right. She had dragged up a stool and wiped down all the hutch tops; they obviously hadn’t been done in far too long. She composed several lists for the wine deliveries, tore them up as inadequate, started new ones.

Marina had been in thrice already, the last time sitting with Esmeralda long enough to finish a full pipe. Then at her mistress’ bidding she had retreated, grumbling concernedly. And now it was nigh unto dawn, and still no sign of Frodo…

Esmeralda couldn’t believe Saradoc was sleeping. He’d muttered something about Frodo not exactly being a baby anymore, and if he wanted to stay out all night and pay the consequences the next morning then perhaps he might learn something. Fine words after he’d rated her earlier for not being mindful enough of that child—he was a child, still, and he had no business being out this late, not to mention the example he was setting for Hall discipline...

The kitchen back door rattled, swung open. Esme turned; a thousand harried questions bid for utterance. All of them were stifled and silenced by the figure that slid silently through the door and halted upon seeing her.

Frodo’s eyes were huge and starry, his breath coming heavily, his cheeks flushed and glowing pale gold in the lamplight. His hair was damp from dew and tangled with bits of bracken, his shirt unfastened down his breastbone and twisted askew. The dim light drew shadows and maturity from his face, revealed traces of sweat clinging to breastbone and forearms and upper lip. He looked changed and charmed, shatteringly sensate, abandoned… aware. Her stomach lurched.

He did not look in the least like a child.

He looked uncannily like his mother had on that night long ago, when she’d come in after consorting with who-knows-what.

They stood, mute and paralyzed, simply staring at each other. For moments. For seeming hours. Then Esme, unable to hold to the preternatural gaze or the ghosts it conjured, looked away.

The quiet held, disturbed only by the sound of his uneven breathing. Then on nearly silent feet, he walked past her and up the stairs to his room.